Rain dripped from the rusted steel grating above, pooling around a flickering sign that read 'The Last Hope Clinic.' Marcus stood in the shadows, his face hidden beneath a hood, watching the alley. The air reeked of urine, and the drone of the city pressed down from above. Technology had evolved in cruel ways since the Collapse, but its wonders were unevenly distributed. The clinic's neon glow was a testament to that—where miracles came at a cost. A woman stumbled out, her eyes black mirrors—unnatural. She blinked rapidly as if trying to get used to them, before disappearing into the dimly-lit streets.

He closed his eyes, and the memories flooded back. Sarah's laugh, the warmth of her hand in his, the smell of her hair. Then came the screams, the smoke, the heat of the flames. The Collapse took everything from him, mostly, the woman he loved—and the face he'd once had. His hood hid the plastic grafts, the patchwork that replaced what fire and war had stolen.

Inside, the clinic's stench of gangrene and antiseptic hit Marcus hard. Smart LED panels buzzed overhead, casting harsh, cold light over the waiting room. A nurse with a synthetic arm tapped a clipboard against her thigh.

"Next," she said, not looking up.

Marcus approached the counter. He pulled back his hood, revealing the plastic sheeting where his face used to be. "I need the treatment," he said through the mesh of his breathing mask, voice muffled and wet.

"ID chip," the nurse said, holding out her hand. He pressed a scab-covered wrist against her palm, and the scanner beeped. Her eyes widened slightly as she read the data. "You were... you were with the Resistance?"

Marcus nodded slowly. "That was a lifetime ago."

The nurse's expression softened. "Room 3," she said, pointing down the dim corridor.

In the corridor, a sweet, metallic scent lurked, making Marcus's stomach churn. He passed rooms where doctors with mirrored visors worked on patients strapped to metal gurneys. In Room 2, a woman wailed as they removed her eyes. In Room 4, a child whimpered as his limbs were replaced with steel. The clinic was a relic of the same government that had crushed the Resistance, the same regime that had cost him everything.

Room 3 was empty except for a single chair and a wall-mounted screen. Marcus sat, trembling, his breathing ragged.

A doctor entered, adjusting his visor. "So," he said, glancing at the clipboard, "you're here for the Meridian Upgrade?"

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Marcus nodded, fingers twitching. "I... I can't take it anymore."

The doctor leaned in close, inspecting Marcus's face through the plastic sheeting. "Nightmares?"

"Every night," Marcus whispered, "I see her face. The screams. The blood. The Collapse... it won't stop!"

The doctor straightened and tapped a sequence into the wall-mounted screen. A glitchy holographic display of a human brain materialized in the air between them, rotating slowly. "The Meridian Upgrade," the doctor explained, "uses targeted nanobots to sever specific synaptic connections in the hippocampus and amygdala, effectively erasing episodic memories while preserving procedural skills like writing and walking."

He pointed to different areas of the brain as he spoke, each lighting up in turn. "It will remove the capacity for memory recall. You won't remember her, or anything that came before." The doctor paused, his expression grave behind the mirrored visor. "But you should know ... this procedure is far from perfect. There are inherent risks, Marcus. We can't always control exactly what's erased. Some patients have lost more than just traumatic memories—they've lost core parts of their personalities, even their sense of self. One patient forgot how to speak, another became a shell—smiling but with no idea why. The procedure cuts deep, Marcus. Are you ready for that?"

The screen blinked to life, displaying a contract in cold, clinical language. "All that's left is your consent," the doctor said softly.

Marcus’s hand hovered over the signature pad. His mind raced. Was this betraying everything he'd fought for? Everything Sarah had died for? He could still see her face, twisted in terror as the flames consumed her. He saw the fall of the last Free City, the crushing of the Resistance. The faces of friends lost, the sound of screams that never seemed to fade.

The memories were unbearable. Without them, who would he be? The question gnawed at him as he stared at the blank consent form.

"I'm sorry, Sarah," he whispered.

He closed his eyes and pressed his thumb against the signature pad.

"Very good," the doctor said, tapping a button on the wall. Straps snapped around Marcus's wrists and ankles, and a mask descended over his face.

A hiss of gas filled his lungs, and the room swam out of focus. The doctor's voice was distant, echoing through the haze.

"Don't worry," he said, "we'll take good care of you."

As consciousness slipped away, Marcus saw Sarah one last time. She smiled, tears in her eyes, and whispered, "Remember me."

He awoke in a room with white walls and no windows. His body felt lighter, and when he touched his face, the plastic sheeting was gone, replaced by smooth, synthetic skin. He stood unsteadily, his limbs feeling strangely light and unfamiliar. Inside, he felt an emptiness, a hollow space where something vital used to reside, though he couldn’t recall what.

The door opened, and a nurse guided him to a mirror. He saw the new face in the mirror—blank, unfamiliar. He opened his mouth to scream, but only silence emerged.

"Don't worry," the nurse said, patting his arm, "Your voice may come back... eventually."

In the dim corridors of The Last Hope Clinic, the screams of the desperate echoed through the walls, but Marcus heard nothing but the soft hum of the adaptive lighting. He shuffled down the rain-soaked alley, just another shadow in a city of forgotten souls.

Somewhere above, the world kept spinning, and the rain kept falling.